The Philadelphia Quarry

by Howard Owen

  Richard Slade doesn’t say anything for what seems like a minute, and none of us do, either.

  Then he clears his throat.

  “All I can do,” he says, “is tell the truth. That’s what I’ve always done.”

  He turns to me.

  “Will you tell my mother? About all this? I think she might need a little cheering up.”

  I promise him that I will and remind him that Philomena seems like she can handle a lot.

  “She’s all I’ve had,” he says, “until you all.”

  “Just do one more thing for me,” I tell Richard. “Look me in the eye, right now, and tell me you did not kill Alicia Simpson. I know your life is riding on this, but my livelihood is, too.”

  He fixes me with an evil-eye stare. He makes it simple.

  “I did not kill Alicia Simpson. I don’t know anything about who might’ve killed her. I was in my mother’s house when it happened.”

  There’s not much else left to say. Marcus tells him to keep his chin up “and eat something, goddammit.”

  On the way out, Marcus asks me if I really think I’m about to shake something loose, and I tell him that I’m going to give it my best shot.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s in that diary of hers?”

  All in good time, I assure him.

  I walk with Kate to her car. She’s willing to drive me home, even if she is, as usual, steamed about my unwillingness to share my feelings, or Alicia Simpson’s revelations, with her.

  “How are you fixed for time?” I ask her.

  She tells me she has a little work back at the office. She’s doing some stuff for BB&B, even though she’s on leave.

  “Doing pro bono work for a law firm?”

  “I’m hoping they don’t make my little furlough permanent.”

  I tell her I know how that feels, then ask her if she would like to meet Philomena Slade.

  She surprises me by saying that, yes, she believes she would.

  The ride out to Philomena’s takes maybe ten minutes. She’s keeping the twins, as usual. Jamal and Jeroy stop harassing a feral cat out in the front yard long enough to tell me that Momma Phil is inside. The boys know me by now, and Kate goes out of her way to make nice with them. She’s good with kids and ought to have some herself.

  Philomena lets us in. I’m thankful she doesn’t mention that I look like shit. I introduce Kate, who within two minutes compliments her on her dress, the decor of her living room and the smells emanating from the kitchen.

  “Chicken and pastry,” Philomena says. “The boys like it. It was Richard’s favorite. I was going to fix it for him, but . . .”

  She turns away. Kate, who is somewhat more of a people person than me, is by her side with her arm around her as if Philomena were her own aunt.

  “We’re going to make this right,” she says, and I add that when Kate decides she’s going to make something right, it usually turns out that way.

  I tell Philomena about what Alicia wrote, or at least a lot of it. I also tell her that it very well could have some bearing on how and by whom Alicia was murdered. Kate is staring daggers, no doubt wondering why I’m sharing something with this woman that I didn’t deign to share with her and Marcus Green earlier.

  “Well,” Philomena says, wiping her eyes, “I’m glad to hear you don’t think it was Richard. I’m glad somebody does.”

  I assure her that I’ve never thought anything else, and I’m only lying a little.

  Like any half-assed cops reporter, I’ve had to dodge flying bullshit on many occasions as criminals—convicted and otherwise—try to enlist me in their hopeless causes. And they are almost always lying.

  I am convinced, though, that Richard Slade is not lying. And it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s my cousin. It’s just that all those heartrending pleas from con artists lying through their teeth have given me, or at least I think so, a feel for that rarest of gems: cold, hard truth.

  Part of it is mannerisms—no blinking or nervous tics or hand gestures. Part of it is a dearth of b.s. preludes: “I’ll tell you the truth,” “truthfully,” “to be honest about it,” “true story,” and so on. But mostly it’s just a feeling you get when that rare wronged honest man looks you in the eye and says, “I did not do it.”

  Philomena invites us to stay for supper, and I’m tempted. Peggy’s house never smelled this good. But Kate has to get back.

  Before we can leave, the boys’ mother, Chanelle, drives up. She’s going to have dinner with her aunt tonight. I’ve never met Chanelle before. She’s a lovely young woman with a 100-watt smile, thin despite the boys, or maybe because of them. She works for the DMV and is taking courses at the community college. I tell her I hope we can get together again, when we can talk longer. She calls me “cousin” and says she hopes so, too.

  As Philomena walks us to the door, Kate turns to me and says, “I wish you’d introduced me to this lady when we were married.”

  Philomena stops.

  “You two were married?”

  I explain, as much as I can as quickly as I can, about our ill-fated union. I can feel that I’m blushing. Kate stands to one side wearing an amused half-smile.

  “Well,” Philomena says, “you all ought to give it another try. You look good together.”

  We both thank her for what seems to be a compliment.

  In the car, Kate tells me that I might have shared my Cliffs-Notes version of Alicia Simpson’s diary with her and Marcus earlier.

  I shrug.

  “I thought Philomena might need a little encouragement.”

  I ask Kate if she’d like to go somewhere for a bite.

  She says she has to go home.

  I ask her where exactly home is.

  “Home is home,” she says.

  It takes me a second or two.

  “The home that also houses Mr. Ellis?”

  “The same.”

  There’s an awkward silence.

  “Willie,” she says, putting her right hand on my arm while steering around an impressive pothole with her left, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. Greg and I are trying to make it work again. We’re trying to have . . . I don’t know why I’m telling you this . . . we’re trying to have a baby.”

  I’m a little surprised and a little sad. Not just for me, although I have harbored hopes of late that Kate might somehow turn out to be my third AND fourth wife. But I feel a little twinge for her, too. She’s always trying, and it seems like she shouldn’t have to try so much. Trying to make her second marriage work. Trying to have a career and keep hubby happy at the same time. Trying to have a baby. I have this image of her the way she used to look when she was concentrating on some sleeping pill of a law book and didn’t know I was looking at her: eyes squinched up, chewing on her pen, her forehead creased with a frown line that I would try to make disappear with my fingers. Kate is always trying.

  I wish her good luck when I get out.

  She starts to say something, but then thinks better of it and drives off into the fading light.

  Clara Westbrook is in the lobby when I walk in.

  She, like just about everyone else today, asks about why my head looks like somebody used it for batting practice.

  I tell her I fell. It probably would just depress her to know that her godson was the batter.

  “Looks like you fell two or three times,” she says.

  Upstairs, Custalow tells me I had a call. He hands me the name and number.

  Giles Whitehurst.

  I guess I’ve pissed the chairman off enough that he wants to eliminate the middleman and fire me personally.

  It’s a call I’d rather not make for a while, say until hell freezes over, but it’s going to be hard to eat or sleep until I do the deed.

  “Whitehurst residence,” an unctuous voice answers.

  When I tell the butler or whoever the fuck answers Giles Whitehurst’s phone who it is, he says, “Just a moment, please,” and it seems almost like I c
an hear him chuckle as he goes to deliver the news to his master.

  A few seconds later, Whitehurst is there, probably holding his bourbon glass in his free hand.

  “Yes?”

  I explain that I’m returning his call.

  “Ah, yes,” he says, as if he’s totally forgotten, in the chaos of his busy day, that he was supposed to ream out and then fire a reporter. “Mr. Black. Yes. I, um, wanted to talk to you about this whole Alicia Simpson business.”

  I’m silent.

  “The thing is, the family has been through quite a lot lately, and I would really appreciate it, as a personal favor, if you would drop the matter. The police seem to have things well in hand without your help.”

  I should just shut up, but I gotta be me.

  “I’m not so sure they have the right man in jail.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Giles Whitehurst says, with perhaps a bit more edge, a little steel poking up through the silk. “But let’s just wait until after the trial. Let justice run its course.”

  “I’m not so sure justice is running its course.”

  I hear a sigh and the tinkle of ice cubes.

  “Mr. Black, I’m not sure you understand what I’m saying. This isn’t exactly a request.”

  Well, why didn’t you say so? Here I thought it was just a multi-millionaire who’s chairman of the board of the company that owns me asking me for a pretty-please favor.

  “I understand.”

  “And although I haven’t talked with Lewis in a couple of days, I’m sure she would be very grateful if you were to back off a bit.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No, Mr. Black, you don’t, other than unemployment.”

  When I don’t speak, he says, “Are we in agreement?”

  I tell him we are, and he hangs up.

  I’m halfway to the living room when it hits me. Giles Whitehurst hasn’t talked with Lewis since I talked to her. Which means she hasn’t called him to complain about my latest round of meddling.

  Which means she hasn’t seen fit to tell him about our meeting tomorrow night.

  Which means, hell or high water, I’m going. There are some things, it seems, that Lewis Witt doesn’t want the chairman to know about. Just me.

  I’m watching an Everyone Loves Raymond rerun and trying not to think of bourbon when I get the call from Jeanette.

  “They’re releasing her first thing in the morning,” my first wife says. “You should be here by nine.”

  Andi. Shit. I’d forgotten all about my daughter. I’m too tired and ashamed to come up with some lame-ass excuse as to why I can’t, finally, do something helpful for Andi.

  “I’ll be there,” I tell her. “Glad to do it.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Friday

  The Witts don’t seem to mind wasting electricity. It looks like every light in the place is on.

  The old Tudor glowers down at me, daring me to approach it. It’s bone-deep cold, one of those nights that make you count the hours until the Red Sox head for spring training. One year about this time, between marriages, I got up on a day like this and started driving south until I smelled spring. I think I was outside of Lakeland, Florida, before that happened. Which made it all the colder when I turned around and came back.

  I look at my watch: 6:55. I don’t want to appear overeager, but I’m freezing my ass off. Besides, she had to hear the Honda straining its way up the drive.

  Custalow wanted to chauffeur me here, but I told him that wasn’t the deal. I was to come alone, even if it meant defying the law by driving myself. It felt kind of funny to be behind the wheel again.

  Before I left, he put his big bear paw on my shoulder and told me to be careful, and to call him if anything went wrong. I told him not to worry. What was a West End matron going to do to me?

  Then I kissed Andi on the cheek and told her I’d see her soon. She doesn’t know much about what her idiot father is doing, which is the way I want it.

  Misgivings? I have a few. But I didn’t come unarmed. I have my tape recorder.

  I push the buzzer. A few seconds later, Lewis Witt opens the door. I think at first I’ve come at the wrong time, because she seems to be dressed for a party. Pearls, little black dress, heels. The works.

  “Come in, Mr. Black,” she says. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Custalow and I brought Andi home this morning. We were at the hospital by eight thirty, just in case. Hospitals being hospitals, we finally made our escape sometime after eleven, after they had schooled me on what signs might indicate that my daughter’s concussion was worse than they thought. I apologized to Abe for costing him half a day’s work. He told me to shut up.

  Andi had a cast on her left arm and looked like somebody had used her for a punching bag. I probably didn’t look much better. One of the smart-ass nurses asked me who was going to be taking care of whom.

  When they finally released her, she refused to let them roll her out to the car in a wheelchair. As we made our way slowly down the endless corridors between us and freedom, Andi looked at me and laughed.

  “We look like the walking wounded,” she said.

  “At least we’re walking.”

  She has always gone a mile a minute. Jeanette thought for a while she had ADHD, but she’s just enthusiastic. And so, it was a bit of a shock to see how slowly she was moving. Three times, I had to stop when I realized I was leaving her behind in my eagerness to get out of that damn hospital.

  Custalow had gone ahead to get the car, probably as glad as me to be back in well-world. It occurred to me that we could have gotten there maybe five times quicker if we’d accepted the wheelchair ride, but I appreciate Andi’s independence, her refusal to lie down. If I’d been in her place, in a hospital for six days, I’d have done it just like she did.

  Back at the Prestwould, Grace Montross and Louisa Barron were in the lobby and made a big fuss over Andi. Through the grapevine, they’d heard about her accident. She endured the attention, even smiling slightly. They assured me that they would be checking in on her. The way the Prestwould works, I was pretty certain that Abe and I wouldn’t have to worry about fixing dinner for the next few nights.

  I had changed the sheets so Andi could have the master bedroom. The trundle bed in the study would be my resting place until she was OK to be on her own. She objected, said she didn’t want to be a bother. I told her she was my princess, and the princess should always get the best bed.

  “You used to call me that,” she said. “When I was little.”

  We talked some, about nothing much. The guard Andi usually has up when I’m trying to act like an actual father was down a bit. Nothing like getting half-killed in a wreck to make you vulnerable.

  She said she was a little tired, so I helped her into bed. I leaned over to tuck her in and kissed her on her forehead. Over the years, we’ve hugged when meeting or departing from each other’s company, and I’ve slipped a stray kiss or two onto her cheeks, but shows of affection aren’t Andi’s thing—at least where her delinquent dad is concerned.

  Today, though, she looked at me and said, “Thank you, Daddy.”

  It made sleeping on the trundle bed more than worth it.

  After Andi drifted off, I called Sarah Goodnight. I gave her a progress report.

  “You’re going over there tonight? No shit?”

  I assured her that I had indeed arranged a meeting with Lewis Witt.

  “Man,” Sarah said, “you must really have her spooked. She hates your ass.”

  I told Sarah that she needed to watch her language. She told me she’s been spending too much time around journalists. Then she asked me when we might be able to write something about this for the paper.

  “Maybe never,” I told her, relating the high points of my conversation with the chairman of the board.

  “But if it’s good enough, we’ll write it anyway, right?”

  I told her, yeah, but we have to get the paper to run it, and it
has to be good enough to make it worth getting fired over.

  “No prob,” Sarah said. “I can always get another job.”

  “I’m not thinking about you.” Well, maybe a little.

  “Oh, you’ll be fine.”

  The confidence of youth is amazing. I used to have that. The newborn lamb does not fear the lion, and all that shit.

  “Can I come with you?” Sarah asked.

  I tell her that’s out of the question. Lewis made it clear that she would only talk to me, alone.

  “Lucky you.”

  “I hope so.”

  I spent much of the day looking after Andi, who napped on and off and gobbled down the BLT I made her for lunch. I hovered so much that she finally asked me, nicely, if she could just be left alone for a little bit. She doesn’t need that much assistance, but having only one working arm does present problems.

  When she had to go to the bathroom and I offered to help, she told me that she would have to be a lot worse off than she was now for that to be an option.

  Late in the afternoon, I got a call from Susan Winston-Jones. Before I could even tell Bitsy that her hunch about the bricks was right, she started in on me.

  “She knows,” is how she began the conversation. “How the hell does she know?”

  It didn’t take me long to deduce that “she” was Lewis Witt, and what she knew was that Bitsy had been talking to me.

  I apologized, explaining how I had inadvertently mentioned that I knew about Alicia’s manuscript because a friend had told me about it.

  “And she figured right away that the friend was you.”

  “You didn’t tell her it was me? Then how did she figure it out?”

  I wanted to say that maybe Bitsy was the only one of Alicia’s friends who might have felt compelled to tell a stranger about it. Or maybe she was Alicia’s only friend.

  “Lucky guess,” I said.

  “Well, she knows. She called me every name she could think of. She scared me.”

  “Scared you? How?”

  “She said that she wouldn’t forget. Forgive or forget.”

  “OK, so you have to live with somebody giving you the cold shoulder. You’ll survive.”

  “You don’t understand. You don’t know Lewis.”